


When the Smoke Clears

by ofplanet_earth



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Barduil - Freeform, Barduil Gift Exchange 2016, Canon Compliant, Cultural Differences, Dragons, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Gift Exchange, M/M, Mirkwood, Nightmares, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reluctant King Bard, Smitten Bard, Smut, The Emeralds of Girion, Top Thranduil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-13 22:56:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7141505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/pseuds/ofplanet_earth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stench of dragon clung like leeches to his clothes and hair. It coated his throat and his lungs like soot, dirty, rotten and cloying. </p><p>It was more than a smell; it was a weight he carried with him, a chill in his bones that sunlight could not touch. It was the dreams that jolted him awake at night, that drove him to pace his house in the darkest hours of early morning, only to sit and stare at the fire burning low in the hearth. It was the charred ruins of his home, hanging on the horizon until it disappeared behind the broken rooftops of Dale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Smoke Clears

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alikuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alikuu/gifts).



> whew! okay! this is my gift for alikuu as part of this season's Barduil Gift Exchange! it's the longest standalone story I've ever written by far, and I'm pretty happy with the end result! I really hope you enjoy it!! 
> 
> also for your enjoyment:  
> a collection of [inspiration](http://ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/tagged/untitled-gift-exchange-piece) on tumblr, as well as a playlist on [8tracks](https://8tracks.com/ofplanet-earth/when-the-smoke-clears) of songs that inspired me.
> 
> thank you to [LoveActuallyFan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveActuallyFan/pseuds/LoveActuallyFan) for beta reading ♡

Bard had been trapped inside the Lonely Mountain for four days. Four days of negotiations with petty, stubborn dwarves. Four days surrounded by cold, dank stone and breathing stale, heavy air. The stench of dragon clung like leeches to his clothes and hair. It coated his throat and his lungs like soot, dirty, rotten and cloying. 

It was more than a smell; it was a weight he carried with him, a chill in his bones that sunlight could not touch. It was the dreams that jolted him awake at night, that drove him to pace his house in the darkest hours of early morning, only to sit and stare at the fire burning low in the hearth. It was the charred ruins of his home, hanging on the horizon until it disappeared behind the broken rooftops of Dale.

A crowd had gathered outside the city gates. They swarmed as Bard approached, asking for news, wanting to know how much longer they'd have to ration their food. Bard turned to Hilda and Percy, begging them silently to help him. 

He felt terrible. He knew he shouldn't be so rude to his friends; nearly every one of them had helped him in one way or another, after Fiona died so many years ago, but he couldn't bring himself to face them now. He slipped away as soon as Hilda caught their attention and began making his way toward the far edge of the city, wandering the ruined and abandoned streets.

The summit in Erebor had been successful by all accounts: the dwarves had promised to help them rebuild within the month, they'd settled on fair terms for trade agreements and finally agreed to honour Thorin's agreement with the Master. Bard knew he should be glad— his people were fisherman and woodworkers by trade— even the most skilled among them could not hope to rebuild a city made of stone.

But rather than relieved or grateful, Bard only felt ill. 

Bard had slain the dragon, seen his people through the horrors of war, and for this they thought him brave— something akin to a saviour. But it was only chance that had brought him this far. Luck and desperation and fear. Did any of those things make him fit to be a lord? A king? 

Bard did not think so. 

He was a bargeman. A widower. A father to three children— and there were days even still when three seemed too many for him to handle. It had taken him years to be able to chastise Tilda for hiding vegetables in her pockets at dinner. How could he be expected to watch over an entire city? How could he hope to make any decisions for other people, for other families?

Bard reached a dead end, the road blocked off by the toppled remains of the southern watch tower. He could go no further, and so he sat down and tried to enjoy the quiet— the closest thing to silence he could find without being back out on his barge again. This might have been the first moment of peace he'd had since… well, since before the dragon. Bard shivered, his heart faltered and began to race, his skin ran cold and he wondered if he would ever be free of that cursed night. 

"Da?" 

Bard nearly groaned at the sound and guilt immediately churned in his gut. He said nothing, only dropped his head into his hands and waited for Sigrid to find him. 

"Da, are you alright?" 

He couldn't ignore her. Eru, he didn't _want_ to— how could he even think that? For a moment, Bard considered telling Sigrid the truth. That he wasn't alright, that he was terrified and miserable and that he wasn't the man everyone needed him to be. That he didn't deserve this responsibility, this _burden_ , and that the dwarves could keep every last piece of their accursed fucking gold and shove it— 

"Da?" Sigrid was beside him now. Her shadow fell over the dust and moss beneath Bard's feet. 

"I'm alright, love. Of course I am." 

"Da, you don't have to lie to me." 

Bard sighed. He scraped his dirty fingers through his tangled, greying hair and steeled himself against this next barrage of concern and good intent. But as soon as he caught sight of her, he knew his effort was for naught. Sigrid, who had Fiona's kind heart, her sharp wit and her piercing blue eyes: she saw straight through him. 

Bard sighed. "Would it be terrible if we packed up and left during the night? Just us four?" He tried to pretend it was a joke, flashing what he hoped was a lighthearted smile, but Sigrid only sighed softly and nudged his arm, a silent request for him to make some room. 

It was a strange thing, to be comforted by his own daughter. How many times had Bard wrapped Sigrid up in his arms and assured her there were no monsters lurking in the icy water beneath their house? How many times had he held her while she'd cried for her mother? And now they sat there in the most peculiar role reversal, Sigrid's arm stretching over his slumped shoulders as tightly as she could manage. 

"No," She said once she'd looped her free hand around Bard's arm and settled her head on his shoulder. "It wouldn't be terrible." Bard chuckled weakly at the absurdity of it: of course it would be terrible. It would be cowardly. 

"It would be awful timing though, wouldn't it? Winter isn't but a month off." 

"We'd manage." Sigrid said, sounding more assured than Bard had felt about anything for weeks. 

"Tilda would be—" 

"Tilda would understand. She loves you, just as Bain and I do. Just as we always will. Nothing will change that, Da." 

"But I couldn't just… we can't." Bard sighed.

"Did you feel this way when Ma died? Like you wanted to run away? Like you couldn't imagine how things could ever be good again?" 

"Sig, I… You shouldn't— you don't have to worry about me," 

Sigrid ignored him. "What did you do then? How did you get through it?" 

"I don't know," Bard confessed. "Eru knows how I made it through some of those days." 

"Do you remember the first birthday I had after she died? I couldn't stop crying, couldn't get out of bed. Do you remember what you told me? You said I didn't always have to be strong, but I had to keep on. That there was nothing to do but to move forward." 

Bard nodded and sniffed away silent, exhausted tears. "You don't have to be strong all the time, Da. No one expects you to. But you _can_ do it. We've made it through so much worse already. We can leave, if that's what you want. We can start again somewhere new, or we can stay. But we will make it through this." 

Bard laughed even as tears began to drop from the tip of his nose. He might have been embarrassed, but Sigrid took it all in stride. "When did you become so wise?" 

"Sometime between then and now, I suppose." 

"It's not fair," Bard turned so he could hold his daughter properly, so she could lean on him like she had when she was young. "You've carried more than your fair share of the weight for years. It's not fair and I'm sorry." 

"Don't worry, Da. I learned from the best, after all." At that, Bard couldn't help but smile. 

"Well then I'm doubly sorry. No one should have me as their teacher." 

Sigrid laughed as she stood and turned to face him. "Keep on, Da," she said as she held out her hands for Bard to take. "Keep on."

∙◦∙

"Say what you like about dwarves, but they know stone better than anyone." Percy said as they stood at the open doors of the Great Hall.

"Aye, and they make sure everyone knows it." Bard ventured inside. "You saw what I had to go through just to convince them to help us." The hall, which before had been drowning in rubble and open to the late autumn air was now grand and spacious. Rows of blankets and makeshift mattresses had been replaced with rows of archways and pillars running down the length of the hall. The floor was smooth and even, the domed ceiling had been repaired and even Bard couldn't say for certain where the old structure ended and the new began. 

"Let's try and be grateful they did, eh?" Percy's voice called Bard back from his thoughts. "It might have taken us a year to accomplish what they finished within a month." The city seemed to glow as it sprawled over the gentle slopes at the foot of the mountain. They looked out over it now, but while Percy admired the craftsmanship of it all, Bard couldn't help the sinking feeling in his gut. 

Bard was grateful for the dwarves' help, truly. Winter was nearly upon them; how many of his people might have died if they'd been left to huddle together here, or to sleep in crumbling homes? But now the city was all but complete, their modest treasury was nearly bursting with gold, and they all had thick new coats and soft bedding.

It was a great accomplishment, but this had been the extent of Bard's plans for the city. This had been his goal, and now it had been met. Soon folk would be looking to him for guidance, for some direction, for _leadership_. Next they'd be planning a coronation, making plans for the crown the dwarves had conspicuously included in their share of Erebor's treasure. 

Bard was pulled from his thoughts by the sight of a familiar dwarf climbing the road toward them. "Balin! I did not know you had come to help with the rebuilding." Bard smiled; it was Balin who had won over his compassion when he'd found Thorin's company on the riverbank outside of Mirkwood, and it was Balin who had helped convince Dáin to honour Thorin's agreement with the people of laketown.

"Oh, no laddie." the dwarf laughed, "I've never had much skill with stone or wood, and I'm far too old, besides." 

Percy excused himself with a promise to take the first night's watch in the eastern tower. Bard eased himself to sit on the steps of the great Hall and motioned for Balin to join him, hoping to keep the atmosphere companionable and informal.

"Ah, you should not undersell yourself so," Bard chided. "I saw you on the battlefield; you brought down two orcs twice your size, and both at once! You're not so old yet." 

"You're a good man, Lord Bard of Dale," Bard cringed visibly at the title, but Balin smiled in return, as though he'd known the reaction he'd get. "You don't approve?" 

"I'm a bargeman. Not a lord and certainly not a _king_." 

"Give yourself time. You'll grow into it; of that I have no doubt." 

"If there's anyone I might believe, it would be you." Though Bard did not believe him in the slightest, he was learning that modesty, not uncertainty, was what most folk wanted to see from him. It also had the added benefit of making him feel as though he might not be lying. "Will you stay for dinner? I may not be much as a cook, but my stew is good enough that even my youngest eats it without complaint."

"You don't have to remind me, laddie! That stew was the only enjoyable part of a terrible day," Balin laughed, and Bard could not help but to join him. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he'd smuggled thirteen dwarves and a hobbit past the Master's slimy spies. "You are a gracious host, but I'm sorry to say I cannot stay. I leave at first light tomorrow." 

"You cannot go! You are the only reasonable dwarf in that mountain! What will I do without you? " 

"Ah, you'll be alright, lad. You've slain a dragon, don't forget! You don't need my help reasoning with a few dwarves." 

Bard frowned and shook his head, as though it might help to clear the memories. "I thought Erebor was your home." 

"It was," Balin sighed. "And I longed to return to it for many years. I've spent most of my life feeling lost, wishing I could go back. But I'm afraid it's not quite that simple."

"What changed?" 

"I don't know, honestly. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything." 

"Aye," Bard could understand that. "It's strange. I've spent most of my life wishing for something… more. Something better. Better work, stability, a good life for my children, and now… we have plenty of food, warm clothes and a safe place to sleep at night. We have more gold than we know what to do with, but all I really want is to sleep on my ratty old mattress. To have dinner in our cramped house. I finally have everything I thought I needed to be happy, and now all I want is to go back." 

"Even if you could go back, I don't think you'd find what you were looking for." 

"No," Bard sighed. "I suppose you're right." 

"It doesn't make it any easier, I know. But we can't ever go back; only forward." 

"Keep on," Bard sighed, Sigrid's words ringing in his ears as they had every day in the weeks since she'd said them. 

"Ah!" Balin said as a thought seemed to occur to him. "I came because I wanted to give this to you before I left," Balin reached into his pack to reveal a wooden box, plain enough to look at, but Bard could see the craftsmanship behind even the simple lines. "It belongs to you. To your family." 

Bard took the box and eased the lid open. Inside was an intricate web of dazzling gold and green— a necklace, he realized, a glittering field of emeralds as bright as summer grass. 

"It is beautiful, Balin, but… why give it to me?

"It was made for Girion. Your grandfather's father. He brought these stones to us and asked our smiths to make an heirloom befitting his house. He was a good man. Brave, kind and fair. We never had the chance to give it to him, but I think he would have wanted you to have it." 

Bard studied the gems, wondering what he would do with anything so fine. A thought rose unbidden in his mind— how the soft gold might look spread over a broad, pale chest, how the intricate facets of each emerald would catch the sunlight, and how they might shine against long silver hair.

Bard's blood surged traitorously. He shook his head and closed the wooden box but he could not banish the thought from his mind.

"I'm sorry about Thorin and the others," he said after a stretch of heavy silence. "He was a good man, in spite of it all." 

"He was," Balin nodded, his expression solemn behind his white beard. "A good man indeed." 

"Where will you go now?" 

"Westward. I make for the Misty Mountains with Ori and Oin and a few of the others. There is an ancient dwarven city there, where we might settle. Make a new home for ourselves." 

"How do you do that?" Bard asked. "Make a place into a home?" 

Balin was silent for a breath, gazing out over the rooftops of Dale and to Erebor beyond. "If I knew that, laddie, I don't think I'd be leaving this place at all. But if I figure it out, I'll be sure to let you know."

∙◦∙

Bard and his children had settled in a two story house on the western edge of the city. Modest compared to some, but still larger than any Bard had ever lived in. The roof had crumbled long ago, and most of the second floor was filled with rubble, leaving Bard and his children to huddle together in the sole remaining bedroom. It had taken a bit of getting used to, sleeping on cold stone rather than soft, sagging wood, but they'd managed.

And when nightmares had thrust him from sleep in the early hours of the morning, he'd found comfort in having his children close by, turning over beneath their blankets and murmuring softly in their sleep. 

Now, after the repairs had been completed and they'd been furnished with beds— not just a threadbare sheet stuffed with straw and old rags, but four actual feather mattresses set atop individual wooden frames— Bard had a room all to himself for the first time since he'd been married. 

What had seemed like a luxury during the daylight was now little more than a well-made nuisance. The mattress was too soft, the thick down quilt was too warm and Bard could not find a moment of piece no matter how he shifted or turned. He lay awake, watching as the ceiling seemed to draw closer and closer in the weak moonlight coming in through the window. He threw his blankets off as his blood seemed to boil, then huddled tightly beneath them again when the early winter chill became too much. He could not remember the world ever being so _quiet_. 

It must have been hours before he finally gave up and moved to the floor. He pulled his pillow and his quilt down with him and lay beneath the window. The silence wasn't as thick there; the soft sound of the wind whistling through the bare trees was enough to quell the ringing in Bard's ears and allow him to drift off.

But sleep was a thin and restless thing. 

Bard would often dream of that last night in Laketown, of the furious, crippling panic he'd felt in that locked cell, helpless to do anything but watch as the town burned around him. Some nights he'd dream he was trapped there until dawn, other nights managing to escape just in time to watch everyone he'd ever known die. He'd dream he could hear his children crying for him, could hear their screams above the cacophony of the firestorm until there were no cries left to hear. 

Some nights he would dream he'd made it to the bell tower, each of his arrows missing their mark until Smaug finally swooped down and sent him plunging into the icy lake. He'd dream the dragon set the tower aflame, that Bain was caught in the fire while Bard was made to watch, paralyzed as his son burned. Once he'd dreamt that the dragon had swallowed him whole, alive and unharmed as he slid down its throat. He'd dreamt he could hear Sigrid and Tilda screaming right up until he was devoured by the fire brewing in the beast's belly.

Tonight, Bard dreamed he was surrounded by stone, his bed carved deep into the earth. Sulphur and ash clung to him, gritty between his teeth and against the pads of his fingers. He could smell the rich damp of the earth, the cool scent of bedrock and moss. He settled in deeper, cool metal shifting against his heated skin.

Daylight streamed through the halls above him, warming the air that filtered down through caverns and tunnels. Sconces flickered on the walls, the soothing scent and crackle of fire casting a warm glow over him. 

He opened his eyes blearily to see gleaming piles of gold and jewels; small and petty riches, mostly, but every coin of it was _his_. It was all _Bard's_ and no one would dare take it from him. He shifted, diving deeper beneath his hoard and revelling in the feeling of all his riches settling over him again. He breathed in deep, the rich smell of fire and stone and _gold_ lulling him back to sleep.

∙◦∙

Bard jolted awake, an aborted cry lodged in his throat and an icy sweat dampening his clothes. He kicked his blanket away, batting at his shoulders and clawing at his arms, his skin still prickling with the roll of phantom coins. He scrambled to his feet and unlatched the window, greedily gulping in the frigid air to chase away the stench of dragon and gold.

It was barely morning; the dawn was only a twinge of pale blue spreading from the eastern horizon, but Bard would not find peace again today. 

He caught sight of a shadow beneath his bed— the dwarven box Balin had left with him the day before. The necklace, the emeralds, the _gold_. They'd been in the dragon's hoard for nearly two hundred years; the same hoard that had driven two kings nearly mad with greed. If ever Bard needed proof that the treasure inside Erebor was cursed, this was it. 

He couldn't sleep with such awful memories kept so close. Not one more night— not for another second. Bard surged forward, toward the tunic and trousers he'd left in the opposite corner of the room. He reached for the comfort of his old fur coat before thinking better of it. He pulled on the newer, cleaner clothes the Elvenking had brought with him the morning before the battle.

That felt like a lifetime ago, now. 

He stumbled down the stairs, still shaking slightly from the cold and the aftershocks of yet another nightmare, feeling glad at least that stone did not creak like old wood. He dug through the mess that was meant to be their pantry and pulled out an old leather sack.

"Da?" 

Bard nearly jumped at the unexpected sound. His heart was racing even as he saw Sigrid sitting beside the hearth. "Sigrid, darling! you scared me half to death!" 

"Are you alright?" She frowned, eyeing the bag in his hands and the coat he'd hastily pulled over his shoulders. "Where are you going?" 

There was no use lying to her; she was bright enough to know better and old enough that she would take no comfort in a lie. "I ride to Mirkwood. I have to see the Elvenking." 

"Has something happened? Are we in trouble?" 

"Not… no." He muttered before climbing the stairs again. He snatched up the wooden box from beneath the bed and wrapped it in his old burlap tunic. He felt ill, holding it so close, but there was nothing to be done for it. He set the box at the bottom of the leather bag and stuffed a wool blanket on top. He cinched the tie and slung it over his shoulder, ignoring the faint clink of the gems inside.

He padded down the stairs again and crossed the kitchen to the front door, unlatching it and waving for a guard who was pacing the street nearby. Sigrid was hovering over his shoulder. Bard could feel her glare even without looking, but he turned to face her still. 

"When will you be back?" 

Bard breathed in as deeply as he could. "I don't know." 

"What business do you have with the elves?" 

"I can't… I can't explain, Sig. I'm sorry." 

"I'm not a child anymore, Da! I deserve to know what's going on." 

Bard wished he could put into words the terror he felt, the nausea that churned in his gut and the tension in his chest that had only grown worse since they'd settled so close to the mountain. "I would not insult you by telling you everything is fine. I can only ask you to trust me." 

Sigrid still did not look satisfied, but she seemed resigned at least. "Fine," she nodded. 

Bard smiled faintly and leaned in to press a kiss to her forehead. "What are you doing awake so early?"

"I've never slept alone. It'll take some getting used to, I suppose." Sigrid shrugged. "Now sit down. You're having breakfast before you go." 

"What would I do without you?"

"Starve, most likely." She smirked. 

The guard had come to stand in the open doorway, a lad named Brom. Bard had known his parents, had found them both facedown in the soft waves breaking on the riverbank. Bard's own grief seemed small as he'd watched the lad weep over his mother and father.

He offered Brom a brief greeting and bade him go to the stables to ask them to prepare a horse for him. It was a full day's walk from Dale to the edge of the forest and Bard would avoid wasting time if he could help it. He knew he should send a messenger or a raven— something to alert the Elvenking to his arrival, but that could take days and Bard couldn't wait that long. 

He mounted his horse by the time the sun had cleared the horizon. He travelled light; only his leather bag and a smaller pouch of food tied to his saddle. If all went well, he'd be on the road for less than two days.

∙◦∙

Bard had ferried goods up and down the Forest River for years. The mouth of the old Elven Road was just south of the river, and he stopped to let his horse drink before sending her back toward the city; she was getting spooked so close to the trees and she would only slow him down inside the forest.

Frost clung to the brittle branches and fallen leaves well beyond midday. The sun filtered feebly through the canopy of evergreens this far from the tree line. The chill had sunk into his boots hours ago, and the thick underbrush and gnarled roots all but hid the path from view, but Bard did his best to keep to the road, hoping it would lead him eventually to the Elvenking's halls. 

The further into the woods he walked, the more he wished he'd sent a raven ahead of him. The stone path was becoming harder and harder to follow, and by nightfall he was beginning to wonder if he was lost. He thought of the stories he'd been told as a lad, of how the these woods were enchanted, how they could lead even the most experienced tracker astray. 

Bard set down his pack and spread out his blanket between the roots of two old oak trees. He hadn't bothered to stop for lunch and now the hunger gnawed fiercely in his belly. He chewed his bread and cured meat in the dark, listening to the eerie quiet of the woods. Bard struggled to keep his eyes open, his head tipped drowsily forward and he worried he'd been snared by some spell. He could not remember the last time he'd fallen asleep so quickly.

∙◦∙

The forest was beautiful. Even in the dark, even after the winter had stripped the threes of their leaves and flowers. Bard dreamed he could see the stars through the tangle of branches above him. The full moon hung low and bright in the sky, casting webs of silver shadows across the forest floor.

He dreamed he saw a stag, its antlers broad and proud, its movements slow and graceful as it picked its way through the woods. Bard tried to reach out for it, tried to call out to it, but it ran off before he could speak. 

He settled against the wide roots that made his bed, listening to the sweet sound of birdsong. A thrush, Bard thought, though by all accounts it should have gone south for the winter. The wind picked up between the trees, their branches swaying in tandem, their bark pure and white in the peaceful night. 

From the shadows came a figure, tall and pale and elegant. The wind blew again and suddenly the figure was before him, draped in robes of coalescing slivers of moonlight and slipping through the bare branches that reached out in the dark. The stars shone in his hair and he smiled as he reached out his hand. Bard took it, startled by its warmth as he leaned to press a kiss to the smooth, unscarred knuckles.

The Elvenking knelt beside him, unconcerned with the dirt that now clung to his knees. He seemed to glow, Bard thought as Thranduil leaned in. He was a vision of white light, interrupted only by the collar of gold and green he wore around his neck. It was the gift Balin had given to Bard, and it glittered as it spread across the Elvenking's strong chest. 

"My Lord," Bard whispered, reluctant to break the peaceful quiet of the night and yet unable to hold his tongue. But the Elvenking pressed a finger over his lips and lay a hand over Bard's heart, silencing him long enough to lean down and steal Bard's lips in a kiss. 

Thranduil embraced him with his whole body, pressing close against him and holding him close with a graceful, feral strength. Bard's breath hitched on soft moans, each one growing more desperate, urging the Elvenking further. Bard's hands ached to caress that fair hair, to clutch that smooth skin, to trace the edge of the gold at his throat, but he dared not mark such a perfect vision with his dirty hands. 

"Bowman," Thranduil whispered against Bard's lips. "Dragonslayer,"

Bard could not help himself. He arched forward, wrapping his arm around the king's back and gripping the soft skin of his neck to pull him close again. 

The night seemed to grow warm around them, as though the Elvenking had brought the daylight along behind him. But the sweet birdsong ended abruptly and the wind came in screaming gusts, sending leaves flying around them. Bard's next breath was tainted with the sharp, familiar scent of wood fire. 

His eyes sprung open just as the dried, dead trees around them burst into flame. "My Lord," Bard cried, "we must do something!" 

A great roar ripped through the night and more fires sprung up all around them. The dragon had come back from the dead, risen from the bottom of the lake, and he wanted his gold. The gold Bard had brought with him— the gold hung around the Elvenking's neck.

Bard nearly shouted when Thranduil tore his gaze from the burning canopy above them: he'd been badly burned, though he showed no signs of pain. His cheek was charred and twisted and his eye was dark. Bard reached out for him, hoping to offer some comfort, but his fingers brushed nothing but air. The wind ripped through the desolated forest, the dragon's wings fanning the flames as he settled nearby, close enough that Bard could see the black arrow still lodged in his chest. 

"You cannot save him from the fire," The dragon roared. "He will _burn_."

∙◦∙

Bard awoke with a cry, scrambling to sit upright on the soft dirt floor. The sun had not yet risen and the weak morning light seemed to paint the ground with ash. Bard coughed the memory of smoke from his lungs, trying to assure himself it was only a dream.

"Lord Bard of Dale," The voice drifted calm and even on the soft breeze, but Bard nearly jumped from his skin, reaching over his shoulder for the quiver of arrows he did not have. His eyes settled on a familiar face, though in his panic he almost did not recognize her. 

"Tauriel," He gasped, still trying to catch his breath. 

Tauriel had kept Sigrid and Tilda safe when Smaug attacked, had fought beside his people in the battle that followed. Bard had offered her a place with them after she'd been banished from her home, and she'd almost taken it. But her king had called for her after the dust had settled and the dead had been buried, and Bard had not seen her since. 

"You should not be travelling in these woods alone," she chastised. "Come. My king has asked to see you." She motioned for Bard to stand and stooped to help gather his possessions. 

She did not ask for any explanation for Bard's presence there and he did not offer any, content in the knowledge that he would soon see the Elvenking. They walked quietly north, quickly coming to a grand stone gate nestled into a stony hill. "Was I truly so close by?" Bard wondered aloud. 

"Yes," Tauriel called over her shoulder. "I suspect you had been walking in circles for an hour or more before you stopped to rest. Most do." 

"Do you receive many unexpected guests?"

Tauriel paused before the gates and tipped her head thoughtfully. "No," she said. "We do not receive many guests." Bard did not ask her to elaborate. 

The Elvenking's halls were spacious and airy, and though the forest was still dim in the pre-dawn light, the atmosphere inside seemed brighter, as though lit by more than the braziers along the walls. They must be underground, Bard knew, but he could feel none of the anxiety he'd experienced inside Erebor. The stone here seemed to be alive, as though it had grown and shaped itself into the walkways and stairs and columns that stretched to the tall ceilings.

They met few others along the way, though their path took them deep within the earth. They crossed bridge after bridge, and Bard had to wonder how elves and dwarves could keep such sure footing on such narrow, winding pathways. 

Eventually, Tauriel led him to an open hall. She stepped aside and motioned Bard forward. He followed a winding and trickling path laid into the floor, as if a stream of pure gold flowed through the stone. Bard walked forward, the memory of whispered words and silken skin still ghosting over his senses. 

The Elvenking sat upon a great antlered throne, calm, regal, draped in generous robes of white and silver, iridescent even in the soft light of the hall. Heat prickled on Bard's skin as the king's gaze followed him through the hall. 

"My Lord Thranduil," Bard said as he reached the steps of the dais. His mouth had gone dry and he worried at the hem of his sleeves, suddenly unsure of what to say next. He should explain his presence here, he knew. He should bow, he should be polite, but he could hardly pull his eyes away from the Elvenking, draped almost lazily across his throne. 

"I did not expect to see you so soon, Bard of Dale." he said at length. His voice was clear and melodic, pitched low, as though meant only for Bard's ears. Bard thought he could see a smirk twisting the king's features, reminding him of lingering glances and subtle smiles traded like private jokes over sips of fine wine. 

"I apologize for showing up like this, but I…" Ever since he'd woken from that horrible dream the morning before, Bard had pressed forward single-mindedly, sure in his plan and his purpose. Now he wondered what he'd been thinking, leaving Dale so brashly. What had he planned to say? How could he explain that he'd brought the gems to Mirkwood not only as a gift, but also because he feared what would happen to him if he were to keep them?

"Worry not, My Lord," The breath caught in Bard's throat at the use of this title. Had it been anyone else, the sound would have set his teeth on edge, but from Thranduil it was exhilarating. His blood surged against his will and he was suddenly overcome with the desire to hold Thranduil close and draw the words from his lips again and again. A shiver ran over his skin and the flush deepened on his cheeks. 

He cleared his throat and the Elvenking smirked again. "My Lord, I have come seeking your council," 

"Yes," Thranduil hummed and crossed his legs easily. "I heard you convinced the dwarves to give up their treasure. I applaud you; I do not think I would have had the patience." 

"I wonder if we might speak alone?" Bard shifted on his feet as his eyes flicked over the guards. A warm blush broke out over his cheeks as he remembered the way the Elvenking had approached him in his dream, and if Thranduil hadn't known what was on his mind before, Bard was sure he did now. 

Thranduil studied him for a long moment, seeming to consider Bard's request. "You are weary," he said at length. "Go now; bathe, rest, regain your strength. Tauriel will show you the way. We will speak again soon." 

Bard's stomach dropped at the thought of having to wait, but he knew better than to argue. He offered a hasty and shallow bow before turning away from the dais. He followed Tauriel as she led him back through the hall, keeping his eyes trained forward, steadily ignoring the weight of Thranduil's gaze upon his back.

∙◦∙

Bard found a bath ready and waiting for him in the guest's quarters, steaming and smelling faintly of herbs and bright summer flowers. He wondered how anyone could have prepared it in time— Bard had only left the king's presence minutes before. He stripped off his clothes and eased himself into the hot water, instantly feeling more relaxed than he had in years. He wondered if there was some magic in the scented oils, or perhaps the water itself. He thought of the way Thranduil seemed to know what Bard had been thinking, and how Tauriel had found him in the darkened forest.

His thoughts drifted as he reclined in the bath, content to soak up the warmth. He'd very nearly drifted to sleep by the time he heard a faint rustling in the adjoining room. He scrubbed at his skin with a soft cloth and silky soap, lathered his hair and let the dirt and sweat slough away. 

He might have been embarrassed by how long he'd let himself indulge in the bath, but he felt more free and clean than he had in ages, and he could not bring himself to regret it.

He emerged from the bath to find a table covered with a spread of bread, cheese and fruits. His clothes had disappeared, replaced by a fresh set laid out on the bed.

He pulled on the underclothes and the leather trousers— so comfortable they might have been a second skin. He slipped the soft tunic over his head, content to leave the elaborately embroidered robe on the bed, and settled down to enjoy the generous breakfast left for him. 

It was evening by the time Tauriel came to knock on his door, bringing word that the Elvenking had requested his presence for dinner. She waited patiently as Bard pulled on the robe and a supple pair of leather boots. 

He considered his pack resting in the corner, and the dwarven box inside. He could not say why, but he turned to follow Tauriel without it, leaving the gems safely out of sight. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and, for a brief moment, thought he might have seen a glimpse of the king everyone wanted him to be. 

Tauriel led Bard through the winding underground paths again, stepping through a tall archway. Thranduil sat at the far end of a vast and shining wooden table, an empty place set by his right side.

"My Lord," Bard said as he stepped further into the Dining Hall.

In place of the silver circlet he'd worn into battle was a striking winter crown. Delicate spires of crystal and ice rose from his hair with sprigs of pine woven throughout. A fine frost hung like lace over the needles, some elven magic keeping it all from melting despite the fire burning nearby. "Will you sit? Or do you intend to eat standing?" 

Bard mumbled an apology and sat down, accepting the wine Thranduil offered him.

"You said you came seeking council," Thranduil said once dinner had been laid out before them. "My council." 

"Yes, My Lord." 

"What was so urgent that you thought it necessary to travel on your own and get lost in my woods? If you are in need of a raven or two, you need only ask." 

"I apologize, My Lord. My judgement was flawed; I should not have arrived unannounced." 

"It is of little consequence now," Thranduil sipped lazily at his goblet for a moment and Bard did the same. The wine was just as strong as he remembered, the memories of the night before the battle soaked in the soft red glow of tingling fingers and easy chuckles despite the threat of war.

"Well?" Embarrassment bloomed hot across Bard's chest and neck; he could not say how long he'd been sitting there, letting his thoughts wander while the Elvenking looked on in silence. "What is this council you seek?" 

"The city has been rebuilt," Bard said— a vague explanation wrapped in comfortable evasion. "Enough that no one has to sleep in a draughty house, anyway. My children and I, we each have a room and a bed to ourselves. We have new clothes and a hearth fit for cooking…" 

"These things displease you?" Thranduil asked, the corners of his eyes creased with what might be confusion or amusement. 

"No!" Bard shook his head fervently. "No, of course not. But the people of Laketown— of Dale— they want to make me their king. They look to me as though I had not been their neighbour for most of our lives. As though I hadn't struggled for years to feed my family, same as them. As if I know any better than they do how to run a city." 

"Don't you?" 

"No," Bard swirled the wine in his goblet before bringing it to his lips, taking a more hearty sip. "And I don't want to." 

"What would you have me say? What advice do you hope to glean from me?" 

Bard let the silence stretch on for what seemed like an age. Thranduil sipped his wine, his movements smooth in Bard's periphery. "I do not know," he finally said. The words fell heavily from his lips, their weight adding to the pile of confessions that grew at Bard's feet. 

"I was not born for this," Thranduil said after a moment. "I was raised among noble houses, surrounded by royal courts and taught by the finest tutors in Doriath, but I was never meant to rule. The silvan elves accepted my father as their king, followed him into battle even in the face of endless darkness." 

Bard sat in silence, unsure whether he ought to speak or wait for Thranduil to continue. 

"War robs us of many things. You are not the only one to find a crown thrust upon him unexpectedly." Thranduil filled his goblet again before meeting Bard's eyes. "And so the only wisdom I have to offer you is this: there is nothing that can prepare you for what comes next. All you can do is bear the weight of it with as much dignity and grace as you can spare."

"But… what if I—" 

"Your people need you, Bard. You may not have asked for it, you may not even want it, but they have given you their trust and their love. What can you do but to trust their faith and love them in return?"

∙◦∙

The Elvenking's words echoed in Bard's ears as he settled into bed, limbs loose and movements slow from the wine. They found their way into Bard's dreams— heady visions of a young Thranduil wandering the wild and untamed woods, carefree even as the first tendrils of smoke began to creep through the ancient trees.

The forest transformed before Bard's sleeping eyes. Soldiers emerged from the trees and rallied behind Thranduil, and they all marched headlong into the oncoming wall of smoke and darkness.

Thranduil was no longer the young and carefree elf who had so rejoiced in the life of the woods. Bard watched as the fire spread between the trees, engulfing Thranduil and his army, burning hot and destroying everything in its path.

∙◦∙

Bard did not see the Elvenking again until dinner that evening. He already wore his boots and yet another fresh set of clothes when Tauriel came to collect him. He gripped the dwarven box with both hands as he followed her down the corridor, but she did not lead him back toward the dining hall; instead they walked for only a minute before stopping beside an ornate wooden door. Tauriel rapped softly, listened for a reply that Bard could not hear, and motioned him forward.

If Bard had thought his own accommodations were generous, the king's were nothing short of opulent. Braziers burned on the walls, illuminating fine silk banners and heavy curtains. The hearth was warm with a bright fire and the smooth stone floor was covered in ornate rugs. 

The Elvenking made it all seem like peasant's rags. 

When he'd arrived in the city square in Dale, Bard had thought he was the most elegant creature ever to walk Middle Earth. He'd watched Thranduil slay orcs as though it were a dance he'd practiced all his life, a vision of silver armour and violent flashes of red velvet.

Now the firelight doused him in rich shades of gold and amber; where he had been cold and unforgiving on the battlefield, in this private space he seemed warm and open. Everything about him was softer, as if he had been carrying a great weight upon his shoulders and had finally allowed it to drop.

They ate and drank much as they had the night before, the gems hidden within their wooden box on a table across the room, out of sight and far enough away that Bard was nearly able to forget they were there. 

Nearly. His mind painted vivid images of how the king's hair might fall over the fine strings of emeralds, translucent in the refracted green light.

"Do you truly expect me to believe that you travelled here only to ask about your reluctance to become a king?" Thranduil asked once their food had been cleared away and the conversation had seemed to reach a lull. 

Bard shook his head, thoughts heavy with the gift Balin had given him. "I've been having the most disturbing dreams," he could feel the Elvenking's gaze on him, but the wine had eased any tension and turned the silence companionable. "Ever since… since the—" 

"Dragons are capable of nothing but hate and destruction," Thranduil hissed, the shadows dancing along the creases of his sneer. "They leave behind only ash and broken people. Even those of us who survive are not the same." 

"When Smaug… when he took Erebor, did he attack your people as well?" 

"There have been dragons in this world since the first age. Smaug was but the last of them." 

"And you… you were injured, were you not? Burned?" Bard blanched as Thranduil turned on him, dark brows drawn together like storm clouds hanging low above a turbulent sea. "Forgive me My Lord, I do not mean to pry—" 

"How do you know this?" Thranduil demanded, his grip tightening visibly around his goblet. 

"I know nothing!" Bard stuttered. "Only that I saw you in a dream while I slept in the forest two nights past. I apologize, truly! I meant no harm." 

"What did you mean, then?" Thranduil spat, though his fury had been transformed— had become something darker, more cruel. Bard watched as Thranduil tensed and trembled, the skin of his cheek seeming to melt before his very eyes. He could see Thranduil's jaw clench, raw sinew and muscle gruesome and exposed. "Is this what you hoped to see?" 

"No, My Lord." Bard shook his head but did not look away. "Forgive me. I have stirred painful memories. Reminded you of things you would rather forget, and I am sorry." 

"Tell me. Has even a single day passed that you are not reminded of all you have lost? Do you expect there will ever be a day when you will be allowed to forget?" 

Bard said nothing; he did not need to. 

"Have I repulsed you quite thoroughly?" Thranduil asked, each word dripping with spite. "If you wish to leave then please do. I would not have your company if you were here against your will." 

Bard searched himself for any hint of horror or disgust but he found none. "I will leave if you ask it of me. But I would prefer to stay," 

"I have no need for your pity, Bowman." 

"I may feel many things, My Lord, but pity is not among them." Bard wondered briefly if the wine had made him bold, but he found that his head was clear even as his heart skittered within his chest.

Bard watched as the Elvenking's face began to shift again. The angry, burned skin smoothed over and became whole once more as Thranduil pulled his carefully constructed mask into place. "What do you feel, then?" 

"I…" Bard could feel his face warming, his boldness shrivelled under the weight of Thranduil's scrutiny. "I could not say." 

"Come now," Thranduil sipped his wine, reaching for a casual air but falling somewhat short. "You will prod at old wounds, reveal the most broken, ugly pieces of me and yet you will not share any of your own secrets?" 

"You are not broken," Bard said. "And there is no part of you that I consider ugly."

"My vanity is not so fragile that you must cushion it with kind words and false compliments." 

"Then I am glad to say that not a word of what I said was false." Bard drank the last of his wine and stood from his chair, crossing the room to retrieve the wooden box and place it on the table between them. "I thank you for the delicious supper, but I believe I have imposed upon you enough for one night."

∙◦∙

Bard had been in his quarters less than half an hour before he heard it— a knock on the dense wood of his door, firm enough that it echoed against the stone walls. Bard half-expected to see Tauriel when he pulled the door open, but Thranduil was there instead.

"My Lord! I did not expect to see you again tonight," Bard stuttered and stepped aside so that Thranduil could enter. He felt horribly underdressed in only his undershirt and leather trousers, while Thranduil still wore his elaborate tunic and robe.

Thranduil stopped in the centre of the room, turning to face Bard with an unreadable expression. He clutched the dwarven box in both hands and Bard thought perhaps he understood the reason for his visit. 

"You will explain," Thranduil's voice did not waver, but there was the hint of a question hanging on the sharp edge of his words. He placed the box on the low table that sat before the fire, prying open the clasp and lifting the lid so that the gems inside could catch the soft light. 

"My Lord, I do not—" 

"This is an heirloom of your house. Your family. Why would you bring it here? Why leave it for me?" 

Bard sighed and dragged his fingers through his hair, surprised to find it smooth and free of tangles, even more than a day after he'd washed it.

"Balin brought it to me before he left Erebor. He told me my ancestor had commissioned it, but that he'd never had the chance to see it." Bard sat on the bed with his hands clasped and hanging over his knees. "My family has never had any heirlooms. Never had anything worth passing down, besides the last black arrow. I have no need for riches beyond what I needed to put food on the table. I wouldn't know what to do with something as fine as that," Bard shrugged. 

"You will find yourself surrounded by many fine things, if you are to become king." Thranduil narrowed his eyes slightly, seeming to discern just from the angle of Bard's shoulders that he hadn't spoken the whole truth. "You could have refused it if the thought had upset you. So I ask again: why did you bring it _here_?" 

Bard tried to breathe evenly, slowly, but his heart beat against his breast the way a hammer beats iron over an anvil. "It… it made me think of you. When I saw it, I couldn't imagine that anyone could hope to wear it as well as you." 

Thranduil's smile was a small, wry thing, but the flickering light of the fire twisted it into a cruel, almost hateful grimace. "How you must regret that," he sneered. "Now that you have seen me stripped of all charm and illusion." 

"I regret nothing," Bard said earnestly. "You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen. A dragon cannot change that." 

The silence stretched as Bard stared at Thranduil, his features slack with disbelief. 

"Will you try it on, My Lord?" Bard asked, flashing a small but brazen smile.

The fire hissed in the hearth, for a moment the only sound in the room as Bard and Thranduil watched one another. "Dwarves are known for their fine metalwork, but their clasps are notoriously complex," he said, reaching for the closure of his tunic at the base of his throat. "Will you help me?" 

Bard stood, feeling suddenly nervous as he crossed the room. With each step he took, Thranduil opened another buckle on his tunic. His fingers were nimble and quick, working the clasps with practiced ease. Something told Bard that he would have no trouble securing the lock of a dwarven necklace, but he said nothing. 

Bard licked his lips as he approached, unable to keep himself from staring as Thranduil exposed the bare skin of his chest and abdomen to the warm light.

Bard lifted the necklace with shaking hands, each string of emeralds swaying and glittering as he trembled. His mouth had gone dry by the time he finally opened the delicate lock. He turned to face Thranduil, pale and still as a statue while Bard wavered and flushed, suddenly unsure of himself and his advances. 

He stepped forward as Thranduil gathered his hair over one shoulder— long, lean muscle flexing beneath his skin. He was beautiful in the splendour of his robes and silver armour, but he was breathtaking like this.

Gentle heat radiated from Thranduil's bare skin, the way a stone held onto the sunlight long after dark had fallen; the way a blade glowed even after being pulled from the forge. Instinct urged Bard to shy away, to take a step back lest he burn himself, but still a stronger force pulled him in, urged him to lean in closer, to let his knuckles brush against the nape of Thranduil's neck and press a kiss to the strong line of his shoulder blade. 

Bard had never been so glad to give in to temptation. 

The breath caught in his throat as his lips brushed against Thranduil's skin. His heart thrilled within his chest and his fingers shook even as he traced the broad spread of Thranduil's shoulders. He stood, rooted to the spot as Thranduil turned to face him, the soft whisper of his hair settling over his back nearly drowned out by the jagged staccato of Bard's breath. 

The collar hung in a wide scoop below the hollow of Thranduil's throat, tiny emeralds and diamonds set into a net of gold that shifted and settled over his collarbones. Larger jewels were set along the edge, narrowing to a point in the centre of his breast. 

"You are bold, Dragonslayer." There was a rough edge to Thranduil's voice but there was no warning of anger or disapproval. 

"Too bold?" Bard asked, desperate to reach out and touch him again, to hear the word that would give him permission. 

Thranduil was close enough that Bard could smell the lingering hints of pine and frost that clung to the fine strands of his hair, enough that he could feel the gentle gust of his breath and the warmth of his skin. So calm this king had seemed, so cold and still. But this close, Bard could see the heat in Thranduil's eyes, the fire, ancient and consuming, raging just below the surface all this time. 

"No," Thranduil said, and suddenly, Bard was lost. 

Thranduil's lips tasted of wine and spice, giving way slowly beneath the pressure of Bard's mouth. He ought to restrain himself, he knew, let Thranduil lead lest he step over some hidden boundary, but Bard could not help but to reach up and feel Thranduil's soft hair slip through his fingers.

Thranduil seemed to come alive in stages, joints bending and muscles jumping beneath Bard's palms like ice breaking and melting in the friction between them. He stepped in closer, stiff joints easing as his fingers brushed the short whiskers on Bard's chin. His spine curled as he dipped down to press himself to Bard's chest, lips parting and tongue flicking over Bard's lips. 

A raw, needy whine scraped its way up Bard's throat, echoing shamelessly around the corners of the room. Desire boiled deep within his gut— the unfamiliar need to devour and to be devoured, to take and let himself be taken. 

Thranduil's hands raked across Bard's back, catching on the soft cotton of his undershirt and tugging it free of his trousers. His hands were soft against Bard's skin, free of work-hardened callouses and scars. He gripped Bard's hips, his nails digging in at the small of his back and pulling him close with a fierce, graceful strength. 

Bard broke away from Thranduil's lips, gasping open-mouthed as his hips snapped forward of their own volition. It was tactless, graceless, and Bard might have been embarrassed, but he was hard and halfway gone already— and he wasn't the only one. For all that Thranduil clung to his composure, Bard could see the strain building at the corners of his eyes and the tension in his limbs. 

He held back until Bard combed his fingers through Thranduil's hair, one thumb brushing accidentally against the delicate shell of his ear. A startled moan ripped lewdly through the air. Bard opened his eyes to see Thranduil, his eyes dark and feral, his composure suddenly cast aside in the heat of arousal. 

Bard stumbled backward as Thranduil urged him toward the bed, gasping as Thranduil grasped Bard's undershirt with both hands, pressing him down to lay across the bed. He tore the shirt from collar to hem, shoving it aside as he drank in the sight of Bard's bared chest.

It must have been familiar once— the harsh scrape of teeth and the soothing drag of lips that drew sharp, searing lines across Bard's chest. Goose flesh rose up across his skin and he wondered just how he'd managed to forget such glorious, aching pleasure. Long, empty years stretched out behind him, but Bard's body remembered even if his mind did not, and he fell back into the rhythm with something like practiced ease. 

Bard arched off the bed, nudged his thigh into the junction of Thranduil's legs and sought out the gentle warmth of his throat, breath catching as the low rumble of a moan rippled and faded beneath his lips.

"Have you done this before?" Thranduil's voice wavered around each syllable, slow and careful, as though he struggled to form the words. 

"Aye," Bard hummed, planting a kiss beneath the base of Thranduil's ear. "Though it's been a good long while since I've been with another man." 

Thranduil pressed into Bard's touch, sank lower to grind himself along the line of Bard's thigh. "It could not be so long ago that you do not remember what comes next," Bard could hear rather than see the smirk that curled around the words. 

"I remember there are better things to do with my mouth besides talk," Bard flicked his tongue out to trace the soft curve of Thranduil's ear, revelling in the dark keen he earned in reply. 

"You— ah!" Thranduil stuttered, arms trembling as Bard nipped faintly at the tip and lay back against the bed. 

"Yes, My Lord?" he asked, wide eyes drinking in the image of Thranduil, eyes dark, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and parted around heavy gusts of breath. The knowledge that this stoic and regal king could appear so desperate— that _Bard_ had been the one to inspire such passion was more intoxicating than even the finest wine. 

Thranduil did not answer. Instead he sat back on his knees and tugged at Bard's trousers, fingers barely brushing against the straining line of Bard's cock beneath the leather. He fumbled with the knotted laces, spitting silken Elvish words like crude, common curses.

Bard's trousers and underclothes were wrested from his thighs just as he began to worry they would need to be cut away. The air rushed in cool against him as Thranduil edged his way down the mattress, leaving Bard hard and waiting, splayed out in nothing but his torn shirt.

Thranduil paused to catch his breath for a moment, eyes trained on Bard even as he reached for the ties of his own trousers. His fingers seemed to have remembered some of their grace and soon he stood naked before Bard, gold and emeralds glittering upon his chest with every movement. 

Bard paid no mind to the rags still hanging from his arms as he sat up and eased himself off the bed. He sank to his knees at Thranduil's feet, fingers tracing paths along the subtle musculature of his abdomen. He licked his lips as Thranduil twitched against Bard's chest. Thranduil studied him— seemed almost confused as Bard knelt before him and palmed the firm curve of his arse. 

"Bowman," the word might have been a warning, but Bard paid it no mind. He kept his eyes on Thranduil as he leaned in low, lips parted, and pressed wet kisses to the firm length of Thranduil's cock. "What do y— _oh_ ," he gasped. Hands clamped down on Bard's hair as he took the tip into his mouth. He worked his tongue along the underside, sucking gently as he eased forward. Thranduil babbled above him, foreign words explained by their breathy cadence and the taught line of Thranduil's body. 

Bard could have spent hours on his knees, worshiping Thranduil with his lips and his tongue and the tips of his pointed teeth, but all too soon, Thranduil's grip on his hair tightened, pulling him away with a soft pop. 

It was not until Bard stood to his full height that he saw just how affected Thranduil was. His breath was harsh and ragged, his cheeks were flushed a furious shade of crimson and Bard could feel his knees trembling. 

"Do men do… _that_ often?"

"Aye," Bard laughed. "Though I suppose it's more often women than men." Thranduil skimmed his thumb over Bard's lips, eyes wide with wonder. "Do elves?" 

"With our _mouths_?" Thranduil balked, his cheeks managing to burn even more furiously while his jaw worked around words that would not come. "No," he said finally. 

"Fancy that," Bard grinned as he shifted closer, slotting himself against Thranduil's hips. "Who could have guessed that a mere man would have something to teach the great Elvenking." 

"You are no mere man," Thranduil carded his fingers through the hair at Bard's temples. "And there is always more to learn." 

"Hmm," Bard hummed. "Perhaps I'll teach you what else we men like to do with our mouths," He pulled Thranduil close for a wet kiss, his tongue tinged with the taste of musk and salt. Thranduil hesitated briefly, but then he swept his tongue into Bard's mouth, breath hitching sharply through his nose. 

"Another time, perhaps," Bard's heart sang with the possibility that this might not be the only time, but rather the _first_. Thranduil brushed the scraps of Bard's undershirt off his shoulders and urged him to crawl onto the bed. Bard followed his silent instructions without complaint, settling on hands and knees in the centre of the rumpled blankets. 

Bard peered over his shoulder to see Thranduil disappear into the adjoining washroom, returning quickly with a small glass phial. Bard shivered as the mattress dipped behind him, skin prickling at the first brush of a gentle hand against the meat of his inner thigh.

Bard hissed as slick fingers traced the crease between his cheeks, the oil warming quickly against his skin. Thranduil eased a single digit past the tight muscle, whispering soft syllables of lilting elvish against the curve of Bard's neck. 

Heat flared across Bard's skin as a second finger breeched him, leaving him a pliant and moaning mess by the time Thranduil added a third. 

"Please," Bard gasped, mindless and desperate. He couldn't be sure what he was asking for, but Thranduil seemed to understand. He eased his fingers away, leaving Bard whining, aching and empty for a few endless seconds. 

Bard held his breath as the head of Thranduil's cock nudged against him, burning hot and stretching wide. He squirmed and twitched around Thranduil's length as he rocked gently forward, each shallow thrust driving him deeper and deeper until Bard worried he might break apart.

Wordless cries tumbled over his tongue as Thranduil finally settled in, the entire length of him burning and pulsing inside him.

"Lle desiel, meleth-nîn?" Bard could not understand the words— could barely hear them over his own laboured breathing— but he nodded eagerly and spread his knees further apart, willing Thranduil to take him. 

Thranduil dipped down, curling himself against the line of Bard's back and setting a slow, even pace that had Bard writhing again within minutes. Bard rocked backward on unsteady arms, spearing himself all at once on Thranduil's cock with enough force to draw a moan from them both.

Seeming to understand his wordless plea, Thranduil gripped Bard's hips firmly between both hands, holding him steady as he thrust sharply forward. Bard dropped to his elbows and gripped the quilt below him, urging Thranduil onward with a string of gasps and cries. 

"Lle naa vanima," Thranduil groaned. "Bâl— celair," Bard couldn't care that he did not know what the words meant; he understood well enough when Thranduil held him close and leaned down to press a tender kiss to Bard's shoulder blade. Cool jewels tickled as they brushed against Bard's back. 

Thranduil's fingers were still slick with oil when he curled them around Bard's cock. Bard reached an arm over his head, grasping a weak handful of hair at the base of Thranduil's neck to hold him close. His climax crashed over him all at once, tension strung tight in his limbs as a rasping moan tore from his throat. 

Thranduil was silent but Bard could feel the hot surge of seed pooling inside him as he came. He eased himself out just before Bard collapsed heavily onto the bed. Bard's thoughts were hazy, every muscle worked beyond the point of exhaustion, but he was able to find the presence of mind enough to whisper, "Stay," a soft plea left to hang in the heavy air. 

"Sleep now," Thranduil helped Bard to settle beneath the bedsheets before sliding in behind him. Bard could hardly remember a time when he'd slept through the night— a time when memories and visions had not been waiting for him in the dark. Thranduil brushed the sweaty hair back from Bard's face as he slipped into a deep, easy sleep.

∙◦∙

Bard left the Woodland Realm the next afternoon, after sharing a solemn and lengthy farewell with its king and securing a promise that they would meet again soon.

He could not say for sure when it happened, but by the time winter came to an end, he'd managed to find the rhythm to this new life. He would wake with the sun as it peaked through his east-facing window. Sigrid was often awake before him, and the first time Bard had come down the stairs to hear soft laughter in the kitchen, he'd peaked around the doorway to see Sigrid and Brom at the table drinking tea after the lad's night watch. Bard had crept back up the stairs and hadn't come back down until he'd heard the door open and close again. 

Bard would see Bain off each morning once he began an apprenticeship with the blacksmith, then walk with Tilda to the Great Hall where many of the children had begun taking lessons in reading and writing. 

Somewhere along the line it all became routine.

When the last of the winter snow had finally melted, two ravens were sent from the eastern watch tower. One flew north to Erebor and one went west to Mirkwood, both carrying an invitation: there was to be a coronation in the city of Dale. 

Bard resented the very idea of a ceremony, but his people would hear no argument and the word _king_ did not inspire the same sinking dread it once had. Tilda could hardly contain her enthusiasm at the prospect of being a princess, while Bain scowled at the prospect of being an heir to any title. Sigrid kept her opinion to herself, but Bard would catch her modest smile whenever Bain would insist she had more of a mind for politics than he. Bard found he couldn't argue with that logic, but they had plenty of time to decide these things. He would not force a crown on any of his children if they did not want it.

Preparations were made without any input on his part— a blessing in some respects and a curse in others. The dwarves readily accepted their invitation, but it was weeks before any word came from the elves. The raven returned from Mirkwood with only a week to spare.

Suddenly, the coronation could not come soon enough. 

Thranduil and his company arrived two days before the ceremony with enough food and wine to feed all the people in Dale and all the dwarves in Erebor. 

"You honour us with your presence, My Lord Thranduil," Bard greeted them at the city gates, trying his best to hide his smile as the knot in his chest began to unwind. "I believe you've met my children: Sigrid, Bain and Tilda," Bard smiled in earnest as he saw his youngest bouncing on her feet beside him. 

"The honour is mine," Thranduil offered them a subtle bow. He kept his expression neutral, but Bard could see the how his eyes were bright in the late evening light. 

"Can King Thranduil stay at our house, Da?" Tilda blurted, earning an embarrassed laugh and a light blush from Bard. 

"May I?" Thranduil smiled, and with both he and Tilda looking at him with wide eyes, Bard supposed he couldn't say no.

**Author's Note:**

> probably inaccurate elvish translations:  
>  **Lle desiel, meleth-nîn** — are you ready, my love?  
>  **Lle naa vanima** — you are beautiful  
>  **Bâl** — divine  
>  **Celair** — brilliant
> 
> if you enjoyed the story, maybe consider leaving a comment?


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